Splitting the Soul
by loving-life
Summary: Cool, confident, and cruel, Voldemort roamed the halls of Hogwarts with his faithful followers. Students feared him...except one. Around her, he was bumbling and awkward. Around her, he was no longer Lord Voldemort. Around her, he was just Tom Riddle.
1. Horcruxes

**AN: The opening of the story is from HBP, pp 496-499 ( US version), with a few alterations on my part. Just so you know—disclaiming ever creating it. I also changed Tom Riddle from a sixth-year to a seventh year because it works better in my story, so don't yell at me! And also, don't have a heart attack if Tom Riddle isn't 100 evil. This is how I imagined him. **

**Disclaimer: JK Rowling created this whole world and most of the major characters, though some are mine. I'm not earning any money from this. Yup. Here goes!**

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"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

Slughorn turned around to see a tall, dark-haired boy standing behind him. A jovial smile spread across his face; Tom Riddle was one of his favorites.

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away. . . ."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about Horcruxes?"

Tom watched Slughorn carefully, taking note of the quick flash of white in the professor's face. With a half-hearted attempt at a smile, thick fingers caressing the stem of his glass, Slughorn replied, "Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?"

Contempt for Slughorn's supreme idiocy darted into Tom's mind, but he maintained an earnest smile. "Not exactly, sir," he said. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"No … well … you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed."

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously—I just thought if anyone could tell me, you could—so I just thought I'd ask—"

He had done it very well, Tom thought. For all his hesitancy, his flattery, his pauses—one might almost think he wasn't even that concerned with the Horcruxes. Almost.

"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Tom. "Well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which person has concealed part of their soul."

At last! It took all of Tom's self-control to mask the excitement that sprung to his mind. "I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," he said.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, on cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a state …" He paused, doubt flooding into his face. "Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

Damn the fool! Tom's hunger for knowledge of the Horcruxes had just begun to be satiated. Why was Slughorn taking so long to explain them? He no longer tried to hide the longing.

"How do you split your soul?" he asked.

"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

"But how do you do it?"

"By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage. He would encase the torn portion—"

"Encase? But how …?"

"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" said Slughorn, and Tom realized that he had overstepped. "Do I look as though I have tried it—do I look like a killer?"

"No, sir, of course not," Tom said quickly. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend …"

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things. Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic."

"Yes, sir," Tom said obediently. "What I don't understand, though—just out of curiosity—I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you split your soul only once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven …?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to rip it into seven pieces …"

Tom could see plainly the troubled look on Slughorn's face, but some part of him—that dark, hungry part—wanted to know more—so much more.

"Of course," Slughorn muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic …"

"Yes, sir, of course," Tom said quickly.

"But all the same, Tom … keep it quiet, what I've told—that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know … Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it."

"I won't say a word, sir," Tom replied dutifully, but the hunger had consumed him so much that he wanted to whisper those words that caused the ultimate pain and force Slughorn to tell him more about Horcruxes. The dark longing filled his vision; he scarcely remembered bidding Slughorn good night and stepping out into the cool dank halls of the Hogwarts dungeons. He let the air cool his hot face—hotter still from the blood that had rushed excitedly through his body at the mention of Horcruxes … splitting his soul into seven pieces … he could do that.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice another person in the hall, walking swiftly towards him, until the other figure was almost at the door to Slughorn's office.

"Oh, hello, Tom!"

His head swiveled around so quickly he could almost have heard it crack. Standing before him, Potions textbooks pressed tightly to her, a roll of parchment balanced awkwardly atop the stack, was Dana Sutherland. Instantly, his mind went numb.

"Erm … hello, Dana," he said. She smiled at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You're certainly up late," she said. "Past ten, isn't it? I thought the Slug Club had stopped their meeting. Otherwise I wouldn't've come."

He stared blankly at her. Bloody hell! Why couldn't he think of anything to say?

"Oh! Yes, it's late. I just had to talk to Professor Slughorn about a—about a bit of reading I've been doing."

She shifted the books in her arms, a quill dangling dangerously from between the parchment, and suddenly Tom became aware of her situation.

"Here, let me help you with those," he said, trying to take some books and parchment from her teetering stack. As if laughing at his pathetic efforts, the books managed to take a dive for the floor, scattering Dana's books and assignments all over the floor. Tom felt his face heat up uncontrollably.

"Oh, bloody hell, I'm sorry!" he stammered, dropping to his knees to help her clean up the mess he had made.

"It's all right, Tom," Dana said; he could hear the laughter in her voice and wanted to hit himself. Why could he never be even a tiny bit composed when Dana was around?

He heard Slughorn's door creak open and looked up to see the Potions master staring down at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement on his face.

"Well, well, Tom, what are we doing here?"

Tom's face had turned a delightful shade of crimson. "I was—I thought that—I mean …" He stood, feeling more and more foolish.

"He was helping me pick up my books and things," Dana said easily, getting to her feet with items firmly in her arms. "I took a bit of a nasty fall, and Tom was being the gentleman." Her eyes met Tom's and he could see a smile starting at the corner of her mouth.

"Yes, of course! I should have expected it, Tom," Slughorn said, beaming at his favorite. "But what cause do you have for being down here so late, Miss Sutherland?"

"I had a few questions with the homework assignment, Professor," Dana said. "About the Addiction Potion and its ingredients. I'm not quite sure if I understand …"

Slughorn heaved a massive sigh, looking as if he longed to be somewhere else. Tom looked at Dana; she was staring determinedly at the professor as if she meant to tell him she wouldn't leave until she got an answer.

"You know, Miss Sutherland, how delighted I am to help any student of mine. But questions every night?"

The tiniest blush spread across Dana's cheeks. "I don't understand the assignments, Professor. I'm—I'm a bit slow when it comes to Potions."

"I haven't noticed," Slughorn said drily, examining his fingernails. Tom's eyes narrowed; he flexed his wand hand unconsciously. He saw Dana blush again.

"Well, Professor, I don't think you explained the effects of extract of vampire venom and how it works in the Addiction Potion," Dana said, barreling on ahead.

"Refer to your textbook, Miss Sutherland. No doubt that will help you in your quest for knowledge."

Tom was itching to shove a spell in Slughorn's face. What gave him the right to treat Dana like that?

"I looked, sir," Dana was saying. "But the language is hard for me to understand; I was hoping you could clarify it for me." It was obvious, though, from the half-hearted look on her face, that she didn't expect much help from Professor Slughorn.

"Your textbook is written in English, is it not?" Slughorn said, eyebrows rising.

"Yes, sir, but …"

"Then I believe you should be able to decipher what it's trying to say. Unless, of course, you have as much trouble with English as you do with Potions."

Dana's face was burning bright red. She looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her, but still she stared resolutely at Professor Slughorn. Tom's hand clenched around something hard; he looked down to see his wand had made it into his hand.

"Perhaps it's time for us to consider other options, Miss Sutherland," Slughorn said, leaning his massive frame against the cold stone wall as if he intended to be here a long time.

"Other options, Professor?" Dana asked.

"Yes, Miss Sutherland. Have you ever considered being tutored?"

"Tutored?" Dana looked surprised.

"Yes. I'm sure I could find a tutor for you. And then, perhaps, you wouldn't have to come down here every night"—he looked down his large nose at her—"and ask me for help when we both know I have better things to do with my time."

Dana's cheeks flushed darker, but she still kept her eyes fixed on Professor Slughorn. In order to stop the fury that rose within him at Slughorn's barely concealed contempt of Dana, Tom let his eyes drift across her face, resting a little too long on her mouth. She must have felt him looking, for her eyes flicked over to him; it took a supreme effort to force down the warmth that rushed to his cheeks.

"Who would tutor me, Professor?" she asked.

Slughorn looked around as if he expected a tutor to leap from the walls; his eyes fell on Tom and suddenly lit up, as if he had forgotten Tom was standing there.

"Tom!" he said delightedly. "How would you like to tutor Miss Sutherland? You're the best Potions student I have; it's perfect!"

"Erm …well …"

"Then it's settled!" Slughorn said, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. "Miss Sutherland, Tom will tutor you. You may have the use of the Potions room if you need it, Tom, although you also might want to use the library. Whatever you prefer." He beamed at Tom. "How good of you to volunteer. Just the Tom I know." And then, bowing to the both of them, he proceeded to shut the door.

Dana stood staring at the door for a long moment, her head tilted to the side as if she didn't know quite what to make of Professor Slughorn.

"I'm sorry, Tom," she said finally, turning to him. "I didn't mean to get you dragged into this. No doubt you have better things to do in the evening than tutor me. I'm absolute rubbish at Potions."

The meetings with the Death Eaters could be postponed, Tom mused. No problems there. They didn't contradict him when he gave them an order.

"Can't think of a thing," he said, allowing himself to smile at her. It felt oddly comfortable—not like the smiles he was forced to give to the professors.

"Oh! Thank you, Tom. This means the world to me," she said, shifting her books to shake his hand earnestly. The pile looked as if it were about to take a tumble. "Thank you so much!"

And with that, she gave him a smile that brightened her whole face and made him feel strangely lightheaded.

"Tomorrow at seven?" he asked, pulling himself back down to Hogwarts.

"That would be great," she said. "Shall we meet in the library or the Potions room?"

"Erm … The library?"

"All right, then," she said, smiling up at him. "Tomorrow in the library at seven."

Thanking him profusely, she turned and walked down the hall. He watched her brown hair, pulled back into a braid that hung all the way down her back, bounce against her back as she walked down the hall. She turned the corner and was gone.

Slowly, he turned the opposite direction—the direction leading to the Slytherin common room. He was out way past curfew, but it didn't matter. No one would get angry with him—the teachers because they all loved him, the students because they all feared him.

Tom's brow furrowed. Well, all the teachers loved him—except Dumbledore. For some reason, the old wizard distrusted Tom. Tom could see it in the level blue eyes every time he looked at the doddering old fool. Except, Tom thought, Dumbledore wasn't really a doddering old fool. He may seem pleasant and a bit senile, but Tom knew the power that lurked behind that long beard. In some corner of his heart, though he would never admit it, he was afraid of Dumbledore.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of all thoughts of Dumbledore, he found his mind instantly turned to someone who had begun to occupy his thoughts quite frequently nowadays: Dana Sutherland. What was it about her—a Hufflepuff, too!—that made him lose his train of thought and stumble over simple phrases like "hello"? She was pretty, no doubt, but not extraordinarily beautiful like some of the girls who tried so hard to flirt with him. Those girls, he could handle easily by merely pretending they didn't exist, but he couldn't even talk to Dana without ending up feeling like a total idiot—and wanting to talk to her some more.

He arrived at the Slytherin common room door and muttered the password—_cadaver_—before climbing through the huge metal grate that led to the Slytherin common room. His dark eyes surveyed the room with satisfaction, finally resting on the small group of seventh-year boys who sat in the center of the room, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and awe.

"We were waiting for you, Lord Voldemort," a burly blonde boy said, stepping forward and inclining his head toward Tom.

"Nott," he replied, moving neatly past the blonde boy and into the circle of boys. They all moved back a little; he could see the respect in their eyes.

"Our meetings," he said, his eyes meeting each of the boys' in turn, waiting for them to shrink from his gaze, "will have to be postponed to later in the evenings. I have—certain responsibilities to take care of earlier in the evenings. I trust"—his voice plainly said there would be no arguments—"that this will be satisfactory to all of you?"

They nodded eagerly; not one of them would dare contradict Lord Voldemort. They knew he was powerful (far more powerful than any of them could dream), but they weren't willing to find out exactly how powerful he was.

"Very well, then," Tom said, his voice silky and low. "That's all."

Nott took the hint and stood up first, bowing low to Tom before heading to bed. Each of the others assembled followed Nott, bowing to Tom before they went their separate ways. Tom was left alone in the center of the common room, watching where the last had left, his eyes cold and thoughtful.

Horcruxes, he thought. He needed to find out more about Horcruxes.

He murmured a spell under his breath, his wand flicking just slightly; the fire opposite him went out, leaving nothing but blackness in the room.

"Luminos," he said, and his wand sprang to light. Pausing slightly, Tom looked around the room one last time before disappearing into the apartment he shared with Nott, Jacobs, and Waverly.

Horcruxes, he thought as he climbed into bed. Who would know something about Horcruxes?

* * *

The next day dawned cold and grey. As usual, Tom was up long before the sun had cast its faint, watery light over the Great Hall. Making little noise, he got dressed, looking disdainfully at the three others snoring in their beds. They would never make great wizards; they weren't even willing to make an effort to get up a little earlier than normal. 

The sun was just beginning to rise when Tom arrived at the owlery, a letter in his hand, written neatly on faded parchment. Nott's owl flew down the moment it saw Tom, holding out a leg. Tom tied the letter securely to the owl's leg.

The owl uttered a low noise and then was winging through the air, soon lost in the grey sky.

Satisfied, Tom made his way downstairs to the Great Hall for breakfast. He took his time, knowing that he would be early anyway. He hated being down there for too long by himself; it meant that he would have to talk to too many of the teachers.

As he passed, a painting of three girls giggled, wiggling their fingers at him. He didn't even bother to turn. Real girls were bad enough.

With a sigh, he entered the Great Hall. It was fuller than he had expected, which was lucky for him. He must have taken longer than he had guessed walking down from the owlery. He scanned the Slytherin tables for any sign of his Death Eaters; Nott and Waverly were sitting at a table, looking rather bleary. Tom's mouth twisted a little in contempt. He hated these inadequate boys who cared more about pretty girls than becoming great wizards.

He walked confidently down the aisles, ignoring a few sighs that reached his ears as he passed by small herds of Slytherin and Ravenclaw girls. He slid into the bench beside Waverly, neatly procuring bacon and eggs as he did so. Waverly jumped a little—guiltily, Tom saw. No doubt he had been whispering about Patricia Nimh, a rather attractive Slytherin sixth year whom Waverly had liked for the last three weeks.

Nott nodded toward Tom—the customary greeting. Tom inclined his head, then started on his bacon and eggs. They tasted particularly good this morning.

Soon the Great Hall was filled with the buzz of hundreds of voices. Tom watched amusedly as students bent their heads over each others' parchments, quills scratching frantically. Even Waverly turned to the plump seventh year girl beside him, drawing out parchment as he did so—yesterday's Herbology assignment, Tom noticed. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly; no one saw, not even Nott.

"I heard today's Transfiguration exam is supposed to be deadly," a scrawny third year down the table said, loud enough for Tom to hear.

"I can't get the teakettle to turn into a cat for anything!" the girl opposite him replied, near tears.

"How do you like my new earrings, Tommy?"

A whiff of strong perfume, and suddenly, Patricia Nimh had forced herself to the seat by Tom, shoving an unfortunate fifth year out of the way as she started shaking her head at Tom. He caught a quick glimpse of emeralds set in silver, and then Patricia had leaned into him, batting her eyelashes frantically.

Tom heard Waverly's breath come faster; he felt overwhelming disdain for the boy beside him and profound repulsion for the girl in front of him, who was twirling her black hair around her finger.

"Lovely," he said coolly. Patricia smiled flirtatiously. Bloody hell, wouldn't she just go away?

"I thought you would like them, Tommy. They're snakes, you know." He gritted his teeth. Tommy? Why did she open her mouth?

"How delightful." Did she expect him to leap up for joy? They were earrings—little pieces of insignificant jewelry.

"I think they're gorgeous, Patricia," Waverly said in Tom's ear.

"I didn't ask you, Cadis," Patricia shot at him, the sugary sweet expression she saved for Tom vanishing in a snarl. Tom was only faintly amused at her sudden transformation. Disgust at her stupidity reigned more prominently in his mind. And anyway, he had had enough listening to idiots like Patricia Nimh. Without warning, he stood, gathering up his books, parchment, and quills. Patricia stared up at him like an adoring fan, her mouth hanging open. He thought vaguely of a spell that would seal her mouth closed forever but dismissed the thought.

"Where're you going, Vol—Tom?" Nott asked, finally looking up from his breakfast.

"To the library before class starts," Tom said shortly. Patricia leapt to her feet.

"Oooo, wait for me! I'll come with you!"

Tom's dark eyes swung around to meet hers, dark fire burning within them. She stood transfixed, a mixture of horror and awe on her face, shrinking before him.

"I think," Tom said coldly, "that you should stay here."

Patricia nodded instantly, a dazed look on her face as she sank onto the bench. Waverly slid beside her, eyeing Tom rather apprehensively. Tom felt Nott watching him; he looked up, and Nott's eyes instantly moved to the plate full of sausages.

"I'll see you in Herbology," Tom said, and he was gone, moving confidently down the aisles.


	2. The Green Monster

The day passed like so many of the others: Herbology, double Potions with Gryffindor, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Astrology, free hour. As always, Tom was above and beyond his classmates; with a lazy flick of his wand he could accomplish in seconds what it took many of them to accomplish in an hour, at least.

Slughorn, in particular, praised him endlessly.

"Oh, look here!" he said, holding up Tom's vial—the perfect shade of blue. "Flawless as usual, Tom!"

It took all of Tom's self-control to hide the look of contempt that he knew was lurking just beneath the surface. Instead, he managed a small smile.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, reclaiming his vial and looking at it disinterestedly. Who cared about a potion that made your skin shrivel?

He watched as Slughorn made his rounds, pointing out the mistakes of various students or lightly praising one or two when they did something right. Tom saw him wrinkle his nose at Nott's potion; instead of a clear blue, Nott's looked a rather sickly grey. Tom leaned back lazily in his chair, waiting impatiently for the hour to go by.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, though, Tom was never lazy. He sat and listened attentively, dark eyes glowing hungrily as Professor Tibble described the effects of this or that Dark magic. He turned the pages of his book, his lips wordlessly echoing the spells that would cause torture, death, pain. Copious notes would fill his parchment with the effects of Dark magic. Professor Tibble thought Tom was the model student; he asked endless questions, was polite, and looked interested. He never thought there might be an ulterior motive.

Transfiguration was a different story. Tom loathed Transfiguration because it meant that he had to undergo Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze for a full hour. The old professor never said anything particular to Tom, but Tom knew he was always watching, even when that pleasant smile spread across Dumbledore's lips. The thought made him more than a little uneasy; he was sure—though not quite positive how he knew—that Dumbledore suspected he was dabbling in the Dark Arts.

Finally, it was his free hour. Tom dumped his books and parchment on his bed, rummaging through until he found his Potions assignment: a foot and a half on lavender water and its effects in infatuation potions. Shoving it to the side, he turned to more important matters—how to find information on Horcruxes.

He was certain there would be some information in the Restricted section of the library; that was where most of the Dark books had ended up. But he doubted whether the spell that would encase his soul would be found in any of the books. Dumbledore would have made sure of that.

He laid down on his bed, staring up at the canopy. He had decided on seven Horcruxes, which meant that he would have to kill seven people. The thought made him only slightly ill. He had already determined who was to be his first victim: the bastard Muggle who had left his mother high and dry. Even thinking about him made Tom's skin crawl with hatred. But he couldn't exact the vengeance he so dearly wanted until he knew the spell for Horcruxes—and who knew how long that would take?

He mused over his dilemma for a long time; it was only when the great Hogwarts clock boomed seven times that he realized what time it was.

"Damn!" he swore, leaping off the bed and scooping all his Potions materials into his arms. He barely missed running into Jacobs as he dashed out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. What would Dana think of him if he was late? Swearing violently at a first year who seemed to have no idea of what it meant to move, he rounded the staircase, leaving the first year staring bewildered after him.

He arrived breathless at the library door, panting. Madam Pince (whom he could have sworn had been there as long as Hogwarts had been open) glared down her pointy spectacles at him.

"Mr. Riddle!" she whispered, her voice like a dagger.

"Apologies, ma'am," he said, giving her a hurried nod as he scanned the library tables. A few first years were gathered around a thick book; a couple of tables down, a couple were too close for Tom to imagine they were looking at all at the book in front of them. Near the back of the library, five sixth year girls were giggling, earning a glare from Madam Pince. And right next to them, bent over her parchment, hair falling over her eyes, was Dana. Was it his imagination, or did his heart start beating faster?

He veered off to the right, coming face to face with a bookshelf. Pretending to be interested in the first book he selected—_The History of Cabbage Leaves and Their Magical Uses_ by Flemy Ribberton—he took a few deep breaths, silently vowing not to act like a total idiot around Dana. She must already think of him as a bumbling fool; who else would manage to drop all her books by trying to be helpful?

Shoving the Ribberton book back into the shelf, he turned and walked slowly to Dana's table, trying to act as nonchalant as he could.

"Sorry I'm late," he said by way of greeting. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes brightening.

"Oh! That's fine," she said, moving over to give him some room. "I was just starting on the Potions assignment. A foot and a half!"

Tom sat beside her, trying very hard to ignore how close she was. He could smell the aroma of her hair every time she moved; it was a mixture of spices—sweet and gentle.

"We might as well get started then," he said, shifting so that he could see over her shoulder.

"I don't really understand Potions," she said, tapping her quill on the parchment. "I don't know why; it's not as if it's incredibly difficult … not like Arithmancy or something … but I just don't understand how potions work." She smiled up at him. Damn, her eyes were beautiful …

"I bet you think I'm stupid because I don't understand something so simple," she said.

"Yes," he said, not thinking—the sweet smell of her hair had him dazed. Her eyebrows rose, and he realized what he had just said.

"Erm … no, that's not what I meant! I don't think—I mean you're not stupid," he stammered, a hot flush rising up through his cheeks. Laughter sparkled in her eyes. Tom cursed himself silently. He could act as cool and indifferent and cruel as he wanted around everyone he knew; he always managed to shove his foot in his mouth whenever he was with Dana.

"I understand, Tom," she said lightly, her eyes dancing with smiles. "Now, about this lavender water …"

The next half-hour passed pleasantly. Tom managed to answer her questions; she had a lot of them. He could see why Slughorn, who seemed to hate doing any sort of work at all, would dislike Dana. She had questions about everything and would not hesitate to ask. Even Tom, though Potions was incredibly easy for him, found himself struggling to answer some of her queries.

Dana had been silent for a while, writing, when Tom, who spent more of his time stealthily glancing at her and watching her bite her lip in concentration than writing his own Potions essay, noticed her look up and saw a soft blush darken her cheeks. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced up to see a handsome blond Gryffindor staring quite openly at Dana.

Something hot and fierce rose in Tom's blood; his hand tightened around his wand. Red crept in at the corners of his vision. He could see no one but that cursed Gryffindor. He wanted to destroy, to rip apart, to kill …

"Tom? Tom, are you all right?"

It took a great effort to look away from the blond Gryffindor and thoughts of murder. Tom's eyes fell on Dana; she was looking at him worriedly, concern in her face. He realized that he had gripped his quill so hard that he had snapped it neatly in two.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said abruptly.

"Are you sure?" she asked, reaching out to touch his hand. "Your face went so white …"

The livid fury that had spread so rapidly through Tom's body at the sight of the Gryffindor looking at Dana disappeared as quickly as it came the instant she touched him. His mind went immediately blank.

"I just—I just thought I saw …" he dropped off lamely, realizing that he had no excuse that would be worthwhile to tell her.

"Maybe you need to go to the hospital wing," she said, her hazel eyes troubled.

"I'll be all right," he said, his eyes drifting unconsciously to the Gryffindor. He looked very self-assured while flirting with three girls; Tom loathed the sight of him.

"Do you know him?" Tom asked suddenly, gesturing in the Gryffindor's direction.

Dana's eyes followed his gaze. The faintest tint of pink appeared in her cheeks. "I know _of _him; I don't know him personally," she said. "He's Gregory Day, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain." She looked up at Tom, and her eyes sparkled. "I heard he's supposed to be a rather arrogant git."

Tom smiled; he couldn't help it. Why could Dana make him smile against his better judgment?

Ten minutes later—and after Tom had spent more than his fair share of time imagining Gregory Day in any number of fatal situations—Dana announced that she was done.

"Already?" Tom asked, surprised.

"Yes," Dana answered, smiling at him. His eyes rebelliously flicked down to her mouth. Embarrassed, he forced himself to meet her eyes.

"You've helped me immensely already," she said warmly. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

He couldn't think of anything to say. His mouth quite adamantly refused to cooperate.

"Tom?" she said.

"Yes!" he said, the answer bursting from him louder than he intended. He earned a deadly glance from Madam Pince who looked as if she wanted nothing more than to spear him on the end of her long, pointed nose.

"Yes, of course," he whispered, meeting Dana's laughing eyes.

"Seven again?"

"Right."

"Thanks again, Tom," she said. "See you tomorrow."

She walked away, her black robes billowing gently behind her. Tom watched as she smiled at Madam Pince and met a plump girl at the doorway of the library. The plump girl said something and Dana laughed. Tom wanted to make her laugh—and not because he acted like an idiot.

He stood up, and his eyes found Gregory Day. The Quidditch captain had lost his admirers for the moment; he was now gazing quite fixedly at Dana. Tom clenched his jaw, dark eyes flashing with hatred. An Unforgivable Curse hung for a fraction of a second on his lips as he imagined—with no little source of delight—what the Crucio Curse would do to Gregory Day.

Shaking his head, he gathered up his Potions essay, realizing that he had only written one line, and a barely legible one at that. He would have to write his essay tonight after the meeting with the Death Eaters.

Fixing one last look of pure loathing at Gregory Day, Tom left the library.

* * *

The Death Eaters met about half a mile inside the Forbidden Forest. Privacy was a must, and the Forbidden Forest afforded them all the privacy they needed. No Hogwarts student dared venture into the Forest.

The leaves crunched quietly under Tom's feet as he moved swiftly to the meeting place, his dark cloak brushing softly against the ground, stirring the leaves. As usual, he wore his hood up, hiding his eyes. It made him feel dangerous and deadly—which he was.

Five cloaked figures were standing in a glen, conversing quietly with one another. When they saw Tom enter the glen, all conversation ceased.

The tallest of the cloaked figures stepped forward, bowing low.

"Lord Voldemort," he said quietly. "We await your orders."

Tom's eyes scanned the group. "Where is Sobolev?" he asked, his voice dangerously low and silky. He saw the Death Eaters shift nervously.

"I—I'm not sure, my lord," Nott said. "We couldn't find him."

"You couldn't find him." It wasn't a question. Tom saw Nott swallow.

"Maybe we didn't look hard enough," Nott said weakly. Tom's eyebrows rose.

"Maybe you should look harder next time," Tom replied icily. His dark eyes held Nott's. "Or, maybe he doesn't want to be found by me." He paused. "Where is he, Nott?"

There was a long, sinister silence. Slowly, Waverly stepped forward.

"I think he's with his girlfriend, my lord," he whispered.

Silence. Tom felt anger coursing through his veins; he knew the other five were watching him, shrinking away ever so slowly.

Two strides, and he was across the glen, his fingers locked around Waverly's left wrist. With a brutal tug, he yanked up the arm of Waverly's robe. The taller boy flinched, cowering under Tom's burning eyes.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Tom snarled, jabbing his wand at the skull and snake on Waverly's arm. He didn't care if Waverly was in pain. They needed to learn. "Is this just a symbol to you?"

Shoving Waverly aside, he turned on the others, his wand lifted, eyes dark with fury. "Apparently, none of you understand what that Mark means," he growled, his eyes glowing red. "Who would care to learn exactly what it means to disobey me?"

No one breathed. Waverly was hunched over, clutching his arm in pain, the Dark magic burning into his skin.

"Find Sobolev," Tom said coldly. "If he isn't at tomorrow's meeting, you will all pay for his mistake. As it is …" He halted. "As it is, I'm very unhappy. I do not believe you want to see me truly angry."

His wand glowed brightly as he spoke, turning his face a ghastly white. He let hatred and distrust sear through his body. If he didn't need these fools to complete his mission, he would have disposed of them right now.

"I have an assignment for you all," he said lightly, letting his wand hand fall slowly to his side. "It is of the utmost importance; I will not tolerate failure." His eyes swung around to meet each of the boys'. They shrank beneath his gaze, almost shaking in fear. "For this reason, Sobolev must be here tomorrow."

"I will make sure he's here," Jacobs breathed, his trembling voice betraying his fear.

"Good," Tom said shortly. One of the figures seemed to hesitate; Tom looked directly at him. "Yes, Nott?"

"I have one question, my lord—if you don't think it's too rude …"

"What is it?"

"Our assignment, my lord. What is it, exactly?"

Tom paused. He didn't trust the Death Eaters, however frightened into utter loyalty they were. He would hardly trust them with his life, let alone his soul.

"My lord?"

"I am looking for—containers," he said. He could sense the questions burning from the other five, but he was not obligated to answer them. _He_ was the master; _they_ were only pathetic followers.

"Containers, my lord?"

"Yes!" Tom snapped. "You do not need to know any more than that right now." _Or ever_, he added to himself. He would never tell them about the Horcruxes.

"Yes, my lord," Nott said obediently, backing away. He didn't want to incite Voldemort's wrath.

"That's all," Tom said. The boys needed no further bidding. As if one, they practically fled from the glen, eager to be the first away.

Tom watched them go, staring thoughtfully after them. Getting the containers wouldn't be hard; he had no doubt that the Death Eaters would find adequate items in which to encase his soul. And if not … well, they would end up regretting their foolishness.

The problem was the Horcrux spell. He had no idea how to encase his soul, how to transfer it to the container. There were no books within his reach that would even begin to explain what he wanted to know. And there wasn't a plethora of Dark wizards wandering around the English countryside, eager to explain the inner workings of Horcruxes to a young wizard. In fact, he would be lucky if anyone at all responded to his letter. No one was willing to put themselves out on a limb in the Dark world, especially with powerful wizards like Dumbledore keeping an eye on things.

Sighing, Tom made his way out of the Forbidden Forest, ignoring the whispers and gentle threatenings that tugged at his hair. He was not afraid of any of the magical creatures that dwelt in the Forest. Pausing at the edge, he stared into the depths of the Forest. Unicorns lived there. He had read somewhere that drinking the blood of a unicorn would let one live forever. It would be interesting to try …

"I believe you are out a little late, Mr. Riddle."

Tom jumped about a foot in the air and whirled around, wand instantly at the ready. Dumbledore stood behind him, amusement in his piercing blue eyes.

"Professor, I didn't see you," Tom said, putting his wand away and trying to meet that blue gaze the best he could.

"I have no doubt of that, Tom," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Otherwise I'm sure you wouldn't have jumped so high."

Tom flushed. "You startled me, Professor," he muttered.

"The Forest makes everyone slightly jumpy," Dumbledore said, gesturing Tom forward. Reluctantly, Tom fell into step beside the old wizard, cursing his bad luck. What good fortune that Dumbledore, who didn't trust him already, should find him by the Forbidden Forest at ten?

"I haven't had the chance to talk to you recently, Tom," Dumbledore said lightly, opening a door to Hogwarts and ushering Tom in. "Perhaps we should start with why you were in the Forest."

Tom's eyes flickered to Dumbledore's. Though the question was asked almost offhandedly, there was a determined look in the blue eyes. Tom swallowed.

"I—I heard a noise," he said lamely. Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted.

"A noise? In the Forest? I can't imagine," the professor said. Tom felt his cheeks turn red and loathing well inside him. "Good thing you're here, Tom, to investigate all noises for us."

"It was a different kind of noise, sir," Tom said levelly.

"Perhaps next time you should let the teachers deal with noises, Tom," Dumbledore said. The lightness in his voice was gone. Tom met his eyes.

"Yes, sir," he said, challenging him without saying a word. "I'll keep that in mind."

They had arrived at the door to the Slytherin common room. Dumbledore looked at Tom for a moment longer.

"I would not suggest having your meetings with your 'friends' in the Forest any more," Dumbledore said quietly. "It is not safe."

Something cold went through Tom's blood. How did Dumbledore know? They had kept the meetings secret. Surely Dumbledore hadn't caught the others.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," he lied. Dumbledore's eyes pierced him.

"I am not as unsuspecting as you think, Tom," he said softly. "I suggest you and I talk another time."

Tom's fists clenched. He didn't want to talk to Dumbledore. "Of course, Professor," he replied.

"Good night, Tom," Dumbledore said, and then he was gone.

Tom stood outside the door a moment longer. If Dumbledore suspected something, they would have to be more careful than they were now. His eyes narrowed. Dumbledore had better start to watch out. It wouldn't be long before Tom was just as powerful as Dumbledore was.

With a smile that did not highlight his handsome features at all, Tom turned and entered the common room.

* * *

**So. What do you think? Review, review, review! **

**Please.**

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	3. Pretty Boy

**Chapter 3: Pretty Boy**

The next morning, Tom watched with grim satisfaction as the Death Eaters approached Sobolev, a blocky, dark-complexioned sixth year who seemed to be constantly attached to his girlfriend. From over his tea, Tom saw Sobolev's face lose all color. Allowing himself a small smile, Tom turned back to his breakfast. Sobolev would be at the meeting tonight. The fear on his face said as much.

Tom was almost finished with his breakfast when he looked up to survey the Great Hall. He found his eyes almost instantly turned to Dana; she was sitting by the plump girl and a very thin black girl. They were laughing at something the black girl had said.

Suddenly Tom's view was blocked. Looking up, he found himself staring up into the green eyes of Gregory Day.

Hatred filled his whole body; it took a great effort not to hurl a curse in that cocky face.

"Tom Riddle?" Gregory said. Slowly, Tom stood. He wouldn't look up to the likes of a bloody Gryffindor.

"Yes?" he said coldly, his fingertips brushing his wand. A Jellylegs hex would do nicely …

"I saw you in the library yesterday with a girl."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Yes …"

"I need to know her name."

Tom's eyebrows shot up. "Why should I give it to you?" he snarled.

Gregory Day leaned in. "Because if you don't, I will make your life a living hell."

The green eyes were hard. Tom laughed. "Am I supposed to be intimidated by a threat from _you_? What do you think I am, a trembling first year with no knowledge of magic?"

Gregory smiled. There was something in that smile Tom didn't like. "What made you think I would use magic?"

"What do you mean?" Tom asked, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

"I'm sure you wouldn't want _her _to know a fraction of what you do in your spare time," Gregory said lightly, examining perfect fingernails. "I'm sure she thinks you're a good person." His eyes met Tom's. "I would hate to tell her how wrong she is."

Tom's hands clenched, his knuckles turning white. The Gryffindor was blackmailing him! He wanted to kill Gregory Day more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom hissed, hatred burning in his eyes.

Gregory smiled again. Good thing there was a table between them, Tom thought, or else he would have ripped that smug smile off that horrible face.

"Don't be thick, Tom," Gregory said easily. "We both know what I'm talking about."

"Ask her yourself," Tom growled.

"Oh no. I asked _you_." Gregory paused. "I wonder how interested she would be in finding out about the rabbit at the orphanage …"

"Dana Sutherland," Tom spat from between gritted teeth. He loathed Gregory Day. Abhorred him. Wanted to maim, dismember, and torture him. "Her name is Dana Sutherland."

The cold green eyes presented a sharp contrast to the easy smile that crossed Gregory Day's face. Tom was trembling with absolute detestation. He gripped the table, his hands itching to throttle the life out of the boy opposite him.

"See, that wasn't so hard was it?" Gregory said, patting Tom on the hand as if he were an obedient dog. Tom jerked his hand back as if it burned.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

"Patience, Tom," Gregory said, his smile widening. "It was nice doing business with you." And with that, he was striding off in the direction of the Hufflepuff tables, leaving Tom shaking and smoldering with a desire to wipe Gregory Day from off the face of the earth. With great effort, he sat down, breakfast forgotten. He wasn't hungry now. Gregory Day had made him sick.

How did he know about the rabbit? The only person who knew of it—outside the people at the orphanage, of course—was Dumbledore.

Tom's eyes burned suddenly. Dumbledore … he must have told Gregory Day about it.

But why?

The answer seemed obvious. Gregory Day was Dumbledore's golden boy. Apparently Dumbledore didn't keep any secrets from him.

Gregory had arrived at the Hufflepuff table; Tom saw Dana turn and look at him. He could see the surprise on her face even from the distance. The Quidditch captain said something and Tom watched in horror as Dana smiled. She couldn't smile. She couldn't. Not at that bloody Gryffindor.

She was so pretty when she smiled …

Tom couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't watch Gregory Day, World-Class Prat, flirt with Dana. He couldn't bear to watch her smile at him. It was too much.

He stood up, anger and frustration building inside him—anger at Gregory Day, and frustration at his own weakness. Why could he not stand to have Dana think badly of him? If Gregory had made the threat to tell any other person, Tom would hardly have cared. But with Dana, he had to give in. She couldn't know.

He stalked away, paying no attention to the Death Eaters, who had just sat down. They stared after him in confusion, wondering what caused the black expression in Voldemort's face. None of them were willing to ask, however.

"Tommy!"

He was about out the door when he found himself in the arms of Patricia Nimh, who—he suspected—had tried to run into him on purpose.

"Oh, silly me!" she gushed, still clutching him tightly around the waist. She was gazing enraptured up at him. "How lucky you were here to catch me, Tommy!"

Catch her? His arms were firmly at his sides. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said icily, trying to extract himself from her vice-like grip. It only seemed to make her want to hold on more tightly.

"I probably would've broken open my poor little head," she squealed. "You're so strong … and handsome … and wonderful …"

He wanted to retch. Was she really so desperate for his attention that she would act absolutely dense?

"Spare me the compliments," he said coldly, finally managing to remove himself from her. "I don't have time for this." He began walking away, ignoring her pleas and sugar-sweet compliments.

He found refuge in the library, buried behind shelves and shelves of books. He sat in a corner, robes spread out around him. Glancing at the titles surrounding him, he knew no one would ever come back here—especially not Patricia, who hated reading.

A fly approached, buzzing lazily around the books. With hardly a movement, Tom drew out his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra_," he muttered. The fly fell, dead. If only that was Gregory Day, Tom thought—Gregory Day and his smug, cocky, loathsome smile.

Tom leaned against the wall, staring down the aisle of books. He _had_ to find information on Horcruxes; curiosity had graduated to an insatiable need. If he could make a Horcrux, he could prove to Gregory Day … to Dumbledore … to the world … that he was stronger than they thought.

He closed his eyes. Maybe after he killed his father, he would kill Gregory Day. The thought gave him more pleasure than he anticipated. He would enjoy the looks in their eyes as he raised his wand, whispering the curse that would kill them instantly. Then they would know what it meant to get on the wrong side of Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Sheets of rain pounded against the windows of the Slytherin dormitories. The dark grey world outside matched Tom's mood. Gregory Day had been in the library that evening, watching openly as Tom had explained the properties of liverwort to Dana. As soon as she stood up to leave, the Gryffindor had practically pounced on her, offering to carry her books.

Tom's fingers clenched around the cold windowsill. Gregory Day had not dropped any books; he had slid them easily away from Dana, balancing them as if they weighed no more than a feather. The arrogant git had even opened the library doors for Dana, simpering and smirking all the while. And Tom had seen the triumphant look Gregory had shot at him as they had left. There was no way on earth he could have missed it. Gregory had swaggered out, green eyes challenging Tom as the Quidditch captain had ushered Dana out the door.

What he wouldn't give to torture Gregory Day …

"Lord Voldemort?"

Tom turned to see the six Death Eaters standing behind him. Sobolev was there, cowering in the back and trying to avoid Voldemort's gaze. Tom allowed himself a tiny smile. He would make Sobolev pay.

"I'm so glad you could join us, Sobolev," Tom said, his voice silky. "I trust this meeting didn't interfere with your—other engagements?"

Sobolev flushed deeply.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he murmured, knowing full well that an apology would not waive Voldemort's anger. "I—I forgot."

"You forgot." Voldemort's voice was dangerously pleasant. Sobolev swallowed. He had not picked the right answer.

"Perhaps I should give your memory a little jolt," Tom said slowly. He withdrew his wand from his robes and with a lazy flick, uttered a single word: "_Crucio_."

Sobolev's body jerked suddenly, green flame from Tom's wand hitting him squarely in the middle. He grabbed his stomach, his face white as pain knifed through his body. His mouth opened to scream but Tom silenced him with a simple spell, staring coldly down at Sobolev as the Death Eater writhed on the floor, his lips parted in silent screams. The other Death Eaters watched in fear as Sobolev's eyes rolled back in his head, his body twisted in supreme agony.

Tom's eyes had clouded with the pleasure of creating pain. In some corner of his mind, it was no longer Sobolev on the floor but Gregory Day, his green eyes wide with anguish, body breaking as his mind succumbed to the torture. Tom's fingers tightened on his wand, wanting to kill, feeling Day's life slipping between his fingers. He couldn't see the Death Eaters anymore, only Gregory Day, only that horribly smug look.

Suddenly, his vision was clear and he realized that it was Sobolev, not Gregory Day, in front of him. His wrist twitched again and the Death Eater went completely still. The room was silent except for the harsh sound of Sobolev's breathing. The Death Eaters had backed away from Lord Voldemort, staring at him with renewed awe.

"I trust you will remember from now on," Tom said quietly. Sobolev didn't respond. There was no need to. With one last gasp, he struggled to his feet, leaning against the door. His lesson had been learned. He would not be late again.

"Onto business," Tom said briskly. The Death Eaters turned away from Sobolev to look at their master. They spared only a second's concern for the latest victim of Voldemort's wrath.

"Yes, my lord?" Nott said, answering for them all.

"The containers."

There was a pause. "What kind of containers, my lord?" Nott asked.

Tom hesitated. How could he tell them without giving everything away?

"Special ones," Tom said finally, "of great magical significance. To hold a—a thought."

They stared blankly at him. Not for the first time, Tom wondered if he had selected the most idiotic students in Hogwarts to be his followers.

"Like what, my lord?" Waverly asked. Tom closed his eyes. Was it too much to ask that they think somewhat independently?

"I leave it to your judgment," he said evenly. "I believe you won't fail me in something so … important."

The Death Eaters shifted uneasily. Not one of them wanted to chance Voldemort's fury; the sight of one of their fellow Death Eaters twisting and screaming silently on the floor was still vivid in their minds.

"Of course, Lord Voldemort," Nott replied. No one dared ask any more questions.

"One more thing," Tom said, the words coming out too fast. The Death Eaters looked at him, curious. "I want you to find out everything you can about—about a certain Gryffindor."

"Who, my lord?" Jacobs asked. Tom's fists clenched.

"Gregory Day," he snapped as if he wanted to bite the name in two.

"Yes, of course," Jacobs said. Tom turned to look out the window to the dreary world outside—the signal that it was time for the others to go.

He listened to them leaving. He would find out information on Gregory Day: his darkest secrets, his deepest desires, what he was desperately afraid of. And by Merlin's beard, he would use whatever means he could to ruin that cocky braggart.

He would do whatever it took to destroy Gregory Day.

* * *

Slughorn leaned comfortably on the arm of his favorite armchair, nibbling on a Chocolate Frog, smiling amiably at the group of students surrounding him. His gaze traveled across the students, resting on his favorite. Tom was sitting toward the back, looking thoughtful. He hadn't said much tonight; he seemed very preoccupied. Slughorn shifted uneasily. He had tried—somewhat successfully—to put the memory of his last conversation with Riddle at the back of his mind. He still wondered how Tom had found out anything about Horcruxes. It wasn't exactly a subject featured in Hogwarts books.

"I have good news for all of you," Slughorn said, clapping his hands together. Tom looked up, mildly interested. Not for the first time, Slughorn wondered how such a handsome boy as Tom Riddle managed to stay girlfriendless. Perhaps he could find him a girlfriend … a nice, attractive Slytherin girl …

"What is it, Professor?" Henrietta Brockington, a slender, red-haired Gryffindor, spoke up. She was nice enough, Slughorn mused, but not quite Tom's type.

"I decided that my Slug Club members deserve a break after exams," he said, beaming out at them. They looked at him expectantly. Such a nice bunch of kids …

"I'm planning a party!" he said. "The Slug Club Christmas Party, set for the day before Christmas holidays."

An exclamation ran through the assembled group. Slughorn smiled. How he enjoyed doing things for his Slug Club members! It gave him a sense of satisfaction—especially when they repaid him in later years, like John Blythewick had. Blythewick was the Seeker on the English Quidditch team and, in appreciation of all Slughorn had done for him, had gotten the professor a season's tickets.

"That's wonderful, Professor!" Thomas Nott said enthusiastically. A good boy, that Nott, Slughorn thought.

Tom hadn't said a word. He was gazing absently at nothing in particular.

"I expect you all to bring dates," Slughorn said. Whispers darted around; Slughorn saw more than one girl glance furtively back at Tom Riddle. He raised his eyebrows. So there _was_ interest in Riddle, though none of it was openly reciprocated—Tom appeared indifferent to all stares. Oh well. _That_ problem would soon be taken care of. Riddle was a young man after all; there was bound to be _someone_ he was interested in. Slughorn took it upon himself to discover who, exactly, this lucky girl was.

The rest of the Slug Club meeting consisted of everyone talking eagerly of the upcoming Slug Club Christmas Party. It was over a month away, and more than one person said the wait would be unbearable. Slughorn beamed. An exclusive party was just what they all needed.

In no time at all, the first students began straggling out of Slughorn's office, conversing excitedly with one another. Slughorn stood at the door, saying good-bye to all of them.

"See you next week, Miss Brockington!" he said, shaking her hand vigorously. "So glad you could make it, Mr. Nott. Good luck against Hufflepuff next week, Mr. Appleby. Keep those Bludgers flying and you'll do admirably. Keep up the good work on your Potions essays, Miss Worth."

Tom was the last one out; he still appeared lost in thought. Slughorn stopped him, and Tom started a little.

"Oh, sorry, Professor," he apologized. "I'm—I'm a little out of things tonight."

"So I noticed," Slughorn said, grinning cheekily. "What do you think of the party?"

"Very good idea, sir," Tom said instantly. If Slughorn had looked closer, he would have seen a flash of contempt cross Tom's dark eyes.

"I'm glad you approve." Slughorn paused, looking slantways at Tom. "May I ask the name of the special young lady who will be accompanying you, Tom?"

Was it his imagination or did Tom blush?

"I—I don't know, sir, I hadn't thought about it yet …"

Slughorn took the opportunity to pounce. "Who is she, Mr. Riddle? A pretty Gryffindor? An attractive Ravenclaw? A lovely Hufflepuff?" He paused, going for the jugular. "A beautiful Slytherin?"

There was no mistake about it. Slughorn had effectively succeeded in making Tom's cheeks flush bright pink.

Tom stammered an unintelligible reply, his cheeks growing redder by the minute.

"Well, m'boy, I see I've hit the spot," Slughorn said jovially. "I shall wheedle her name out of you yet." He patted Tom's shoulder. "You see if I don't, Tom. Now run along or you'll be late for bed."

Tom seemed to want nothing more than to leave. He murmured a good-bye and then appeared to dash down the hall in an effort to get away.

Slughorn stood in the doorway for a moment longer, watching Tom's hasty retreat. So there was a girl. He had been right. And she was a Slytherin. Even better.

He smiled to himself as he shut the door. Tom's little secret wouldn't stay a secret for long. He, Professor Slughorn, would find out the name of the girl if he had to interrogate every human being at Hogwarts.

* * *

**Hmmm ... no real Tom 'n' Dana parts in this chapter. I'm still not quite sure if I like it. I don't know if it flows the way I want to. Anyway, tell me what you think--aka, review, please:)**

**Many, many, _many_ thanks to my lovely reviewers: Nameless Waif, Elbo, superblondechica (heehee, chica), Linwe Amandil, Nocturnal007, A Marauder, fantasticarla, raina, i like eggs, and Charming-Lynn. You guys are AMAZING. With capital letters, too, no less. **

**(Just a note: If you'd like an individual reply to your review, just tell me and I'll try to get back to as fast as I can--which, incidentally, may not be THAT fast. .:smiles sheepishly:.)**

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